Those Who Stay
by muggleborn.dragon.ryder
Summary: "Those who stay will look after Hiccup." AU. Rated T for eventually affectionate but nonetheless unpleasant nicknaming.
1. Chapter 1

_**Those Who Stay**_

 **Chapter 1**

 **A/N: This is just a little idea that occurred to me. It will turn OOC, as a warning. If you prioritize IC AUs, you might want to turn back now. And basically, just...enjoy? Review if you like it, keep quiet if you don't. Or flame, but those will be ignored.**

* * *

Stoick the Vast was tired. He was stressed and frustrated and a million other things, a million other little worries and woes piling on his mind at that moment, but he kept it together because he was the chief, and that was what chiefs were supposed to do. He still had people to lead, and for as long as he had people to lead, he couldn't afford to become weak or emotional. He needed to be strong for the battles ahead.

His eyes flicked over the Vikings filing into the Great Hall – they all looked as he felt – exhausted. Hopeless. Weary. Frustrated. Every single one of them. Because of those beasts, those savage, mindless monsters and his son…

His mind flitted back to Hiccup's hopeful, freckled face. Why couldn't the boy follow orders? Their sheep had been taken from them because of him and now they would have no wool! Even worse, the dragons had managed to raid much of the village's food supply, leaving their storage houses empty and leaving them virtually powerless to restock until the end of winter. If something didn't change soon, they would starve. He scowled down at the map spread out over the large center table, trying to erase his previous conversation with his son from his mind. Well, really, it was more of an argument. Why did everything with his son always have to end in an argument? Sure, it wasn't so bad when the boy was five and six, stubborn but actually willing to listen. Now? Odin himself could descend from Valhalla, and Hiccup would still plunge on ahead with his own agenda. Restraining him was like restraining the wind.

Beside him, Gobber cleared his throat, signifying that the rest of the village had filed into the Great Hall and currently awaited the words of their chief. He sighed, shifting his gaze back to the map temporarily. If he just didn't look at them, he didn't have to think about anything but those other islands, farther inland, for a few minutes. Finally, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to face the exhausted warriors in front of him. "Either we finish them, or they finish us. It's the only way we'll be rid of them."

He could easily read the surprise and shock on his villager's faces – they had been expecting plans to restock their food, or an ingenious plan. But the problem was, Stoick was all out of both. He had no ideas. Nothing he did or said within the next few minutes could fix this. So he had to give voice to the only idea he possessed, burning within him like a fire. "If we find the nest and destroy it, the dragons will leave. They'll find another home!" He grabbed up the knife lying beside him on the table, plunging it deeply into the thick paper, listening to the satisfying ripping sound. It made him feel a little better, at least. "One more search," he added as an afterthought. "Before the ice sets in."

The Vikings around him began to murmur, drawing slightly away from him as if he had a highly infectious disease that they were afraid of catching. And maybe he did. Gobber always said he was the craziest, most boar-headed, most stubborn Viking there ever was.

"Today's no good for me," one of the Vikings offered up weakly, shrinking away from him.

"I have to do my…axe returns."

Stoick's annoyance flared. _Seriously?_

But to his immense chagrin, nobody was sticking up for him, saying, _"Yeah, sure, I'll go with the chief!"_

If just one person swung it for him, then he could get other people on his side, too…but everybody fell silent after the first two or three excuses. Well, there was more than one way to skin the proverbial dragon. "Alright." He nodded. "Those who stay will look after Hiccup."

As expected, hands suddenly shot into the air, the same Vikings who had tried to avoid going now clamoring for a spot.

"To the ships!"

"I'm with you, Stoick!"

The man smiled to himself, but refused to let the satisfaction show on his face – he merely gave a stern nod, looking around at the volunteering villagers in turn. "Aye, that's more like it."

"Right. I'll pack my undies."

Startled, the chieftain turned. Gobber. Of course. He sighed. "No. I need you to stay, and train some new recruits."

Gobber made a face. "Oh, perfect," he muttered sarcastically – Stoick wondered if that was where his son got his dry humor from. "And while I'm busy, Hiccup can cover the stall. Molten steel, razor-sharp blades, lots of time to himself…what could _possibly_ go wrong?"

The weight of the world pressed deeply into Stoick's shoulders. "What am I gonna do with him, Gobber?" Wasn't that the question of the week?

"Put him in training, with the others," Gobber responded, as casually as if he wasn't condemning the boy to his death with his words.

"He'd be killed before you let the first dragon out of its cage!"

"Well, he needs someone to look after him while you're gone, Stoick – believe it or not, you won't always be around to protect him. If he's in training, at least I'll be able to keep an eye on him, right? Besides, you said – those who stay will look after Hiccup, right?"

"I know, but Gobber…dragon training?" The man pressed nervously, brows scrunching together. "I'd come back to find my son in pieces, and that's not—wait a second. Who else is staying? Nearly everyone volunteered, except…"

"Except Gothi," Gobber supplied automatically. "And Mildew."

Stoick's own words echoed in his head. _"Those who stay will look after Hiccup."_

The man smiled. "Right. I've got an idea."

* * *

"What?" Mildew was, to say the least, flabbergasted. He had recently been staying out of the shenanigans of those crazy Vikings in the village. In fact, he rarely had need to go into town anymore – ever since the chieftain had deemed him too old and frail to fight against the dragons, he'd secluded himself.

"You heard me." Stoick the Vast had guts, that was for sure. Clearly, he thought he could just throw his weight around and get what he wanted. Well, Mildew may have surpassed the age for fighting, but he was still quite fierce in battle, thank you very much! He was not going down without some sort of fight! "Everyone in the village did, actually. Except you. Those who stay will look after Hiccup." His mouth twisted into what Mildew almost thought was a mischievous smirk.

"Let me go!" The elderly man was only seconds away from begging on bended knee. "Don't make me stay with…with _him_!"

"Look, whatever your opinion of him, you do want this village to still be intact after my search is over, correct?"

No words come out of Mildew's mouth. He was too…horrified. Shocked. Furious. He was to be saddled with the unwanted runt all because Stoick the Vast was too busy riding into battle at too old an age to even bother looking after his kid himself? Why couldn't Gobber have been stuck with him? Why wasn't he put in Dragon Training? And then the idea of Hiccup in Dragon Training crossed the elderly man's mind and he winced. Maybe that was for the sake of the village, too.

And under the glare from the chieftain's watchful eye, he dared not refuse. "Alright," he muttered resentfully, clutching his staff a little tighter as he spoke. "I'll try my best."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Those Who Stay_**

 **Chapter 2**

 **A/N: Wow! I was not expecting such a response! 20 follows, 17 favorites, and 6 reviews? Wow! Craziness! I really didn't expect much, considering no one in this fandom likes Mildew. Personally, I love him. If not as a good person, then at least as a good and interesting character. Seriously, I really love him. I also love Dagur. And Alvin. And Heather. All the bad people that appear in the show xD except Heather honestly wasn't bad. She was doing it for her parents, so I could understand. If anything, it was Hiccup I had a hard time forgiving in that episode. I could understand Tuffnut, Snotlout and even Fishlegs - Snotlout flirts with anything with tits and Tuffnut just liked her because she was pretty. And Fishlegs knew he never had a chance with a pretty girl like Astrid, so he turned his attention to Heather instead. But Hiccuppp seriously D: he was so blind. He's supposed to be the smartest Viking on the island!**

* * *

" _What?"_

The news could not have been more unwelcome. His head was still so full of everything that had happened in the forest that day – finding that Night Fury, realizing he wasn't a total screw-up at capturing dragons after all, trying to kill it and then finding himself unable to do so. Then he'd realized he really was a screw-up, if not at capturing dragons, then at least at killing them. And he couldn't just leave the poor thing, bound in ropes, flightless. If he left it there, it would surely waste away from starvation. The least he could do…and then the dragon had left him alive? Things were too crazy right now for him to even think about his father's news.

His dad could not seriously mean…no! He had to stop this.

"You heard me," his father said sternly.

"Mildew hates me!"

The disgusted look in his father's gray eyes reminded him of what he had temporarily forgotten: everyone hated him. He flushed, looking away as if the man's very gaze had burned him. He wished he could do something, say something to make his father listen. But he knew that that was not an option, especially now. It was only ten in the morning, and he had already screwed up everything – ruined the village's food supply; shot down a Night Fury, but everybody thought he'd lied about it; gotten his father mad at him again because he couldn't do anything right; found said Night Fury, completely defenseless, on the ground in front of him, but hadn't been able to kill it; and fainted when actually confronted with the dragon's terrifying atmosphere. Yeah, things were going just wonderfully today. Of course his father didn't want to hear it. Hiccup didn't even want to hear himself right now. Scratch that, he didn't even want to be himself.

He stared resolutely down at the ground, averting his gaze from his father, unable to even think of facing the disappointment and anger there. Problem was, it was always there, whether he liked it or not.

"Enough. You're sticking with Mildew until I get back."

Would Mildew even keep up his end of the deal when his father left? Hiccup wondered. It was no secret that the old man hated him, loathed him, really, perhaps more than anyone else on Berk. It was this, above all else, that made him think to try and argue again. "But Dad, Mildew—

"My decision is _final_."

Hiccup couldn't help but wince. His dad was using _that tone_ on him – the tone that told him it would be pointless to argue further, the tone that was so icy, it made him feel colder than winter's first snowfall. The tone that never failed to remind him how much of a burden he was on the village – as if looking in the mirror every day couldn't do that. He dropped his gaze back to the ground. "Okay," he mumbled, releasing a sigh and releasing the last of the fight left in him, along with the exhale. "Okay, fine."

"Good." To say the chieftain's scowl disappeared would be lying – he merely stood from his place by the fire, grabbing up everything he needed for the voyage ahead, barely looking at his son as he talked. "I'll be back," he added, grabbing up his Viking helmet from its hook by the door and stuffing it on his head. "Probably."

"And I'll be here," the boy added miserably. Then, remembering the expression Mildew always wore whenever he looked at him – as though he'd just bitten into a particularly ripe lemon – he surrendered all hope. "Maybe."

* * *

Boy and man eyed each other apprehensively, one clutching his staff so tightly his knuckles were white, and the dragon's teeth at the top rattled. The other merely had his arms crossed, mouth turned down into a not-quite-a-scowl-not-quite-a-frown-but-definitely-not-a-smile expression. For a minute, neither said a word – to tell the truth, Mildew would be perfectly happy if this little arrangement lasted like this for the next few weeks. But before he could become too comfortable, the boy spoke, nasal voice haughty and disdainful. "I won't tell Dad if you don't." He immediately turned on his heel and started stalking away, in the general direction of the forge, Mildew thought. He walked in such a calm, sedate manner that the old man realized he didn't actually expect him to try and keep up.

The words floated back to him, and he suddenly grasped their meaning. He was sorely tempted. It would be so easy to just pretend he was hanging around the kid for the sake of the village – and for the sake of his own neck, thank you very much – but what if that crackpot blacksmith was at the forge, working until the Dragon Training lesson? If Hiccup showed up without Mildew…

Much as the old man didn't want to play babysitter to a destructive teenage boy, he sighed, shook his head, muttered, "I better get some credit with the gods for this," and started following the boy. Hiccup hardly seemed aware of him until he turned a corner, spotted him, turned back, and frowned. "What are you doing? I told you to go."

"But Stoick told me to stay," the elderly man replied, prodding open the door of the forge with his staff, drawing a loud creak from the wooden panel that made him wince, but to which Hiccup gave absolutely no reaction.

Gobber wasn't there, which made Mildew sigh. _Typical._ The one time he actually decided to act for cautions' sake, and it wasn't even necessary. He could turn right around and go home now. Except…

Hiccup gave the man a couple extra seconds to join him in the dimly-lit shop before speaking again. "I can look after myself, you know."

Mildew snorted, but Hiccup said nothing, merely shouldered his way past several precariously placed weapons, stripping off his vest and hanging it on a hook by the furnace as he did so. Mildew watched as he carefully took his sketchbook out of the furry garment, pausing only to toss it onto the table in the backroom before going immediately over to the pile of weapons waiting to be repaired. Not for the first time, Mildew wondered about that little leather bound book. Most Vikings learned their rune alphabet, but never used it – didn't have time, or incentive. Why did Vikings write letters? Why should they need to write at all, or read? The only reading material any Viking was interested in was the Dragon Manual. Yet Hiccup did care about reading and writing – carried around a bottle of squid ink, even, and a stick with a sharp end, for whenever he needed to use them. He'd never explained to anybody exactly why he cared so much about something so blatantly un-Viking, but then, nobody had ever asked, either.

"Well?" Hiccup turned sharply to face the man. "Are you staying or going? I don't want you hovering there like an idiot all day."

The unexpectedly sharp tongue was what spurred him back into action. "I'm not any happier about this than you are, you know that, Hiccup?" He disliked the way the name felt on his tongue, but the obvious way that it grated against Hiccup was what made him enjoy it. "I didn't ask to look after a stupid brat, you know. _Stoick_ came up to _me_. I sure as hell wasn't volunteering."

Hiccup's face was entirely impassive. "I'll remember that," he replied tonelessly, before turning back to his work.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Those Who Stay_**

 ** _Chapter 3_**

 **A/N: Well, you guys requested the next chapter quickly, so here it is! :D A little tiny snippet of insight into Mildew? Why, yes, I believe there is. Suspicions about where Hiccup was, anyone? I'm sure everyone can tell, of course, but I like to think I'm mysterious every once in a while xD**

 **Oh, also, I'm listening to my writing playlist as I type this. But I can only write HTTYD when I'm writing to this playlist because it has songs that remind me scarily of HTTYD like Ziegler's "Hail to the King" and Brunuhville's "Cry of the Dragons" and of course "Queen of the Gaels" :3 Though I do think I might switch to just Brunuhville in a minute because his "Aurora" CD is crazy relaxing. Seriously, you do not know true relaxation until you've heard his "Essence of Life". So beautiful.**

 **Oh, you know what I need to do? I need to update my other stories D: A Walk in My Shoes can wait, but it's been awhile on Ashes and Break of Dawn, hasn't it?**

* * *

No! No, no, no! Not already! He couldn't possibly have lost the kid already! The kid had only darted into the backroom forty minutes ago! He couldn't possibly be gone, just like that! How had Mildew already lost him? He certainly wasn't winning any prizes for being observant, but Hiccup was so clumsy that simply crossing a room for him could startle a half-deaf goose. How had he been able to slip out so quietly? Mildew should have heard him!

The elderly man had been searching for the better part of an hour already, in a blind panic, glancing up at the clouds every so often when a nasty rumble of thunder drew his attention. How had he been so stupid as to let the kid slip right through his fingers? More to the point, why was the kid so determined to get away from him in the first place? He'd been acting a little tense all day, but childish anger wasn't enough of an explanation. If the kid had wanted to sneak off without an escort, and if he'd made so much of an effort so as to be quiet when getting away, there had to be another reason. But where could he be?

It wasn't yet time for the noon meal, so the Great Hall was definitely out of the question. The Dragon Training lesson had ended hours ago, so Gobber was most likely back at the forge by now, but there was no way he was going to ask the blacksmith for help. It'd be hard enough just admitting that he'd lost track of the stupid shitface – there was no way he was asking Gobber for help in the bargain. Mildew did not ask for help.

At that moment, the clouds burst.

So help him, he was going to beat that kid within an inch of his _life_ if he did not come back right this minute. He stalked resolutely onward through the village, pale eyes flicking from building to building, mentally checking to see if Hiccup would go there or not. He wouldn't be at his own house, for he hated it there. And he certainly wouldn't be over at the Hoffersons' or Jorgensons', for it was no secret that no one in either family could stand him, despite the fact that he was related to the Jorgensons.

With the rain constantly pelting him, however, Mildew was ready to accept whatever excuse he could to go hunker down in the forge again – or more preferably, his own hut on the edge of town. He could stop, after all…really, it wasn't like anyone would actually miss the screw-up…but then the memory of Stoick the Vast's furious face hit him rather violently. The things that man would say if he lost his precious son and heir…he liked his head on his shoulders, thank you very much.

He blinked a bit of rainwater out of his eyes, and continued with his search.

But the search, as it happened, did not end until a good twenty or thirty minutes later, when the boy in question came stumbling out of the forest, sodden, soaked to the skin, auburn hair plastered to the side of his head, green eyes wide and vacant, like he wasn't truly seeing anything in front of him. Like he didn't know what he'd been putting Mildew through! Like he didn't even care!

The elderly man stomped resolutely over, shaking his staff in a threatening manner as he went. The boy hardly reacted to the rattling of the dragon's teeth. "Where _were_ you? Where did you _go_? Why did you _do_ that?"

"H-huh?" The look in Hiccup's eyes just stoked the fires of Mildew's anger. The boy barely looked aware of his surroundings – it was like he wasn't seeing anything at all.

"You know what I'm talking about! I was looking all over for you, and you decided a stroll in the forest was in the cards? Why didn't you come get me? If you wanted a trip into the forest, you could have come for me! I would have gone with you!"

"I—I—

"If Stoick knew I'd already lost you once, oh! He'd have my head for his personal trophy if he knew!"

"Mild—

"So don't run off on me again and leave me to deal with the aftermath!"

"Alright, I got it!" Hiccup interrupted angrily, and Mildew glanced down at the boy in some surprise, a bit taken aback by the forceful tone of voice. "Now I'm hungry. I'm going to the Great Hall. If you can handle that, you can come, too." The boy swept away without another word, leaving Mildew feeling frustrated, angry, annoyed, confused and a little abashed all at once. Reluctantly, he followed after the boy.

"Just don't do it again, kid," he grunted. "I'm not going to be the one taking the blame for your shit next time, alright?"

Hiccup snorted quietly but before Mildew had a chance to ask about the sound, they reached the steps of the Great Hall. Hiccup quickened his pace, fairly flew up the stairs, and slipped into the Great Hall without so much as a glance back.

He needed a break from this babysitting business, that was what he needed. Stoick hadn't actually come out and said he had to spend every waking moment with the kid, after all. He followed the boy into the Great Hall, grabbing the first few edible items he saw, setting them on a plate and taking a hasty seat at a corner table. There now. No annoying teenage boys who ran off without even bothering to tell him where they were going. No crackpot blacksmiths yelling about dragons. Best of all, no Chief Stoick the Vast to tell him what he was doing wrong, no Chief Stoick to tell him to go away or get lost, because he wasn't _useful_ anymore…

The bitterness in these sudden thoughts surprised even the man himself and he quickly took a bite of chicken, hoping food might clear his head. He was just tired, and he was angry because the stupid brat had run off at first opportunity. He would have to give the kid reason not to run off in the future – yet short of chaining him to a stake, he had no ideas on that.

No matter. He would think on these things later. Speaking of the kid…he looked around the Great Hall, spying the head of dripping auburn hair at a small table, sitting away from his peers in Dragon Training. The other kids barely even looked at him, but Mildew could tell by the red flush rising in the freckled face, that they were talking badly of him, and that he could hear it.

When the boy raised his head, the man looked away as if scalded. Whatever it was, it was the kid's problem, not his.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Those Who Stay**_

 **A/N: So I am inexplicably and unreasonably proud of this chapter, mostly because next one will give us some big insight into Mildew - you'll actually see a bit of this one from his POV, to explain his view of things, and then I'll move on with the rest of the fic. I thinkk I'm gonna like ittttt :D and yes I did just start singing Annie. 2014 version, folks #swag #that'smyfavoriteAnnie #butthe1999version'sgoodtoo #Idon'tknowifI'veeverseenthe1982infull #eitherwayIdidnotenjoywhatIdidsee #whyamistillusingthis**

 **Also, we're finally moving ahead with this storyyyy just yesss those first three chapters were kind of bitches but then I always have trouble with the third chapter and I don't know why. I talk about this more on _Rabbit Hole_ if you want to pop over to that instead. *shameless self-promo***

* * *

Scarcely anyone save the boy himself knew it, but if there was one thing Hiccup liked, it was a mystery.

By nature, he was an inquisitive and adventurous kind of person, and he never liked to simply leave things as they were; he had to know why they were that way, who had chosen to make them that way, and if it was the gods, couldn't the all-powerful beings see that the world they had designed was wrought with flaws? Why had they made the sky blue, and why had they made a world in which the dragons raided them and they must fight them? Why had they made a world in which every living thing had to kill to keep on living? Why they created a world in which people died, in which people became ill or fell on the battlefield, and why had they created so many things that could kill people? Why had they created a world and filled it with some people who were strong and fearsome and fine leaders and given them sons who were so very different that it seemed impossible that they shared blood?

When he was a child, he had driven his father nearly mad with questions such as these, and it seemed to him that the man had never given him particularly satisfactory answers. Most of those questions, he had voiced when he was very young – and most had no answer. They were very small disappointments in the scheme of things, mysteries never to be solved.

But here at last, thrown right into his lap as if a handmade gift from the gods themselves came this. The Night Fury in the woods…the black dragon in the cove was a mystery indeed…why hadn't it just flown away? What had stopped it? And why hadn't it attacked him? This was to be the second time in two days that he had been undefended, unprepared, and still the Night Fury had remained peaceful in its own strange, almost comforting manner – just staring at him, thick black tail moving slowly back and forth, huge green eyes fixed unrelentingly upon his face, never leaving his. There had been a look almost like curiosity in those eyes, and Hiccup could not forget it. He could not deal with it. He could not swallow it or cease thinking about it.

It just didn't make any sense.

Dragons were inferior creatures that were utterly incapable of feeling anything but an instinctive desire to kill; dragons were vicious beasts that would destroy everything in their paths; dragons were not capable of rational thought or true emotion. To all intents and purposes, a Night Fury expressing anything like curiosity went against everything Hiccup had ever learned. There was no explanation; there was nothing else for it; the dragon had wondered about him as he had wondered about the dragon. He didn't know, perhaps would never know, how long he had remained on that wall of boulders, breathless with something more powerful than wonder.

Looking down at his plate, the burnt salmon staring unseeingly back at him from the wooden dish, Hiccup recalled the dragon submerging its black, spiny head in the murky waters, mouth opening, teeth snapping…and rising unsuccessful, green eyes burning as it gazed down upon the food it could not secure. It had been hungry. And it hadn't flown up to him and ripped his throat out. Another familiar teaching was that dragons would do anything for survival, even turn on their own kind and yet the weakened, hungry creature looked as if the thought hadn't even crossed its mind. Why hadn't it? What had stopped it? Certainly, Hiccup knew, he had only tempted the dragon further by sliding down that wall of boulders to retrieve his charcoal stick – he could purchase more when Trader Johann docked on Berk shores again, but he had no wish to wait. He knew he couldn't get by without writing and drawing and creating, and did not wish to attempt it.

When his boots had touched the soft green grass and he had bent down, scraping and scrabbling in the dirt for his stick, and the only thing separating him from the dragon had been shining water, the Night Fury had not attacked. Had not plunged into the pond and swam the distance; had not gone around the glistening, silvery pool to retrieve his prey; had merely stood there with a flicking tail and wary, empty, hungry eyes and a fierce yet skittish stance that made Hiccup feel rather sorry for it. Even when he had turned his back upon the creature to begin the perilous climb up the wall once again, the Night Fury had not touched him. Just stared with those wary, empty, hungry, curious eyes.

It was true, Hiccup did have a liking for mysteries; but he was beginning to feel that this was one better left untouched.

* * *

Yet another thing that scarcely anyone knew about Hiccup – and indeed, that he did not even know about himself – was that, quite aside from liking mysteries and longing for adventures and asking hundreds of questions, he could be extraordinarily stubborn and he was quite a determined child. So when he spotted the elderly man, staff rattling, angry scowl fixed firmly in place, the words from the previous day ringing in the air before them – though he would have dearly liked to turn back then – he clenched his freckled hands into fists and firmed his mouth, squared his shoulders and continued on his path, acting as though he had not seen Mildew at all.

He went immediately over to the furnace and knelt by it, reaching for the tinder and flint, secretly glad at the chance for heat – for the tiny little island of Berk was a northernmost dwelling and the approaching winter made the mornings quite frigid.

As he worked, gradually producing a spark and then a merry, crackling fire which he was quite pleased with, the old man at his back uttered not a word and for this, he was glad. He supposed it had been good fortune that he had wound up working the blacksmith stall with a man like Gobber, who may not have liked him but was at least kind, rather than a sour, selfish person such as the one who currently resided within the forge's confines.

The boy did not bother to remove his vest or tie on his apron at all; the early morning wind carried a savage bite today, just enough to remind everyone of the coming season, and he had no wish to increase the discomfort by removing his thickest garment. Choosing a weapon from the pile awaiting repairs and crossing the forge to his work desk, Hiccup examined the chipped sword critically; fixing his green eyes upon the blade so as to avoid the other, paler gaze, he came to a stop in front of the desk. He spoke not a word himself, choosing instead to set to work immediately on the weapon, letting it rest upon the wood for a moment while he collected the tools necessary for repairing it. There was a long moment in which nothing could be heard aside from the occasional chink of metal upon metal as he set about fixing the sword, but Mildew appeared horribly unsettled due to the silence, and at last, turning his staff this way and that in his veined hands, the elderly man spoke, albeit rather stiffly. "It's cold."

Hiccup lifted his head from the sword in surprise, nearly losing grip of the hilt. He had not expected the other occupant of the forge to be the first to speak. He wanted to respond with sarcasm, but every comeback he had seemed to have slipped through his fingers. "I…I hadn't noticed." This was very clearly a lie, considering he had entered the forge not ten minutes previously, wracked with horrible shivers, and collapsed gratefully by the furnace upon reaching it, but Mildew did not challenge him; strangely, he did not seem interested in berating the boy any further for any real or perceived wrongdoings from the day before.

"Winter will be coming soon," the old man said gruffly.

"Yes," Hiccup responded carefully, tossing the elderly Viking a confused glance over his shoulder as he spoke. "Yes, I…I suppose it will."

"I don't think it'll snow today, though."

"No, it's not cold enough." Okay, even by his standards, this conversation was _painful_. Mildew seemed in a very strange mood indeed.

The elderly man turned as quickly as one so aged could to face the door, moving with suddenness Hiccup could not have predicted still resided in his bones. "I should…I should leave."

"…Okay…?" Quite apart from being inquisitive and stubborn, Hiccup did possess a few good qualities, one being an even temper, and the ability to deal with others patiently or even kindly, even when they were not near so patient or kind themselves. So when he spoke again, he was sure to soften his tone slightly, and remembering something Gobber had once said regarding aging men and their inability to handle prolonged or acute chill, he added, very quietly, "It's kind of cold out, though, like you said, so if you want to—you know—take a minute to warm up by the furnace or something, go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

Mildew paused where he stood by the door, one hand frozen in the act of reaching out for it. He moved not an inch save his pale, pale eyes, which seemed to look at everything and nothing all at once before at last locking onto the boy's face and seeming to ask a great many questions at once.

"Seriously, though," Hiccup turned to meet his gaze, desperation on his face, " _please_ talk about something other than the weather."

For the first time in ten years, Mildew, lonely and trying man that he was, opened his mouth and a very low, very cracked laugh came through. It was not terribly loud or long; a short burst, a brief chuckle, but both man and boy heard it and indeed, the latter was surprised that the former could laugh at all. Even more astonishing was that the man had laughed at him; he had not expected the other to hear the slight, joking undertone to his words, had not realized the elderly Viking was capable of spotting any humor in the situation at hand, had not realized that there was anyone else upon the little island that would understand his humor, and the boy found he had to smile. "Well, c'mon, then, if you're coming, don't just stand there. Your sheep would be a nice subject change…what's his name again…? Fungus? Why isn't he here, anyway?"

"Yes, Fungus, that's right…he's a bit ornery in the winters and won't leave the house unless I _carry_ him down the hill, if you can believe that…"


	5. Chapter 5

_**Those Who Stay**_

 **A/N: Okay, so this chapter is pretty bad - there's nothing, like, really outwardly wrong with it, it's just not as good as I guess it could've been (but then the name's .ryder, you guys associate subpar writing with that name by now I'd think) - but I was in a hurry because I gotta let you know before next month that I probably won't be on for likely the whole month of September. I'm working on a lot of stuff - I'm putting a book out and I want it to be on the shelf by the end of next month, but to do that I gotta really bust my ass. (Don't misunderstand, the book is WRITTEN, I'm not that masochistic, but I just have a lot of work to do on it before I can do anything with it.) But since that'll eat up most of my time, I just don't think I'll have enough left over to work on fanfiction and such. I'll still continue writing and I'll finish this fic and others, I promise - there'll just be a noticeable gap in updates. I'm gonna try and get out a chapter for Break of Dawn and Overachiever before I go, I've seriously been neglecting those, but I dunno if I'll be able. I'm sorry I'm gonna be unavailable, but at the same time, I am honestly excited for myself and I hope you guys can understand and perhaps partake in my joy. If you want to see me, though, you might catch me on my personal Tumblr (writerofberk) more often than on here. Thanks for reading, and please review!**

* * *

It went without saying that Mildew was thought to be – correctly so, it must be admitted – the selfish, unapproachable kind of man, harboring a great dislike for a great many things, and with piercing pale eyes that held the power to render young children rather skittish, the self-conscious rather embarrassed, and those in between rather annoyed.

Indeed, his manner was one so repulsive and unpleasant that, upon meeting him, one might assume that spite and loathing resided in pride of place within his soul, and in this assumption, one might not be radically incorrect.

But despite all that could be said of him, the fact remained that Mildew had yet to prove the long-running suspicion that he was anything beyond human – and if he was human, well, surely, even he could not be entirely immune to those vexing little distractions most would call emotions, and the more optimistic residents of Berk had remarked, on numerous occasions, that he simply must hold something softer than hatred within his twisted old heart.

Whether these claims held even so much as a grain of truth remained unconfirmed – yet it was true that the man had found himself, sometime during the previous day, wrestling unreasonable stirrings that others might have christened _guilt_. They started somewhere in the region of his chest, he noted, and they were uncomfortably _warm_ and _persistent_ and above all, extremely distressing. He had no reason to be experiencing this sort of discomfort, he had _no reason_ to be feeling the way he was; sure, he had hollered at the boy, but the little accident had surely heard much worse from that father of his! Their fights were the talk of the village when gossip grew scarce, and if he were to believe everything he'd heard, the child had received far harsher rebukes from the chieftain than he, Mildew, would ever consider delivering to any youngster.

And it wasn't as though the boy wasn't _deserving_ of a good tongue-lashing – actually, he was deserving of a real lashing, if Mildew were honest with himself, but unfortunately, one could be severely punished if they were witnessed laying so much as a hand on the chieftain's heir. Rotten, unbearable, infantile little _brat_ …

Yet even the generous amount of verbal affronts he gladly heaped upon the boy in the safety of his own mind couldn't fully dull the sharp sting of self-reproach still prominent in the old man's heart – and so it was that shame blossomed at once within him when he spotted the chief's child, small hands tightly fisted, small mouth tightly sealed. Anger was evident in every last breath, seething unchecked from every pore; it was apparent in the rigid hold of his aloft, unforgiving chin, and it was certain and appreciable, even as he knelt by the hearth and, with practiced hand, coaxed a fire with his tinder and flint, spreading a wonderful, glowing wash of heat throughout the whole building; the boy had a powerful wrath, and for the first time it occurred to Mildew that he shouldn't like to be on the receiving end of it.

Mildew stayed silent for as long as he could, those piercing pale eyes of his fixed upon the other, studying the small body striding purposefully about the forge, taking a bent, cracked sword from the pile awaiting repairs and setting to work upon it, yet there came a time when he could stand it no longer, and so he spoke, albeit rather stiffly. "It's cold." Perhaps he could appease his conscience if he simply made conversation with the boy, if he made an honest effort to put the previous day firmly in the past.

The child lifted his head, surprise evident in his bright eyes. "I…I hadn't noticed."

Mildew could hardly fail to notice the dishonesty within the words, but he did not address it. "Winter will be coming soon."

"Yes, I…I suppose it will." Despite the very odd looks the child was throwing him, Hiccup had the grace to respond with the pretense of courtesy.

"I don't think it will snow today, though." Mildew could have kicked himself; what was he _thinking_? _Why_ should he engage this boy in conversation? What wrongdoing, either real or perceived, was he even attempting to make amends for? And why was he berating himself in the first place? Why did he feel guilty?

"No." The child dropped his gaze back to the weapon awaiting him. "No, it's not cold enough."

"I should leave." Mildew rose suddenly from his seat, and the wooden structure creaked alarmingly behind him; no, he could not stay here another minute, he could not bear the child's puzzled looks and his own shame, burning determinedly in his breast, and he could not bear the fire crackling within and the wind howling without, and he could not bear the solemn responses he was receiving, as unexpected and unsettling as the guilt chewing and gnawing upon him like a starving cretin. Hopefully, the child would forget; hopefully, within the hour, he would not recall this strange instance, and they could return to despising each other and then the chief could return, and they could go their separate ways and he would never stray back into this horrible village and life could go on as it was…

"Okay." The boy never once looked at the man, standing by the door; his gaze was fixed always upon the sword in his hand, and when he next spoke, the words left his lips so very softly that the other nearly missed them. "It's kind of cold out, though, like you said – so if you want to…you know, take a minute to…to warm up by the furnace or something, go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

For a moment, it seemed to the old man as if the boy had stolen all the air from the smithy with these words, or perhaps he just could not think to breathe; everything about him suddenly locked, legs refusing to carry him any distance in either direction, fingers falling limp and lips crashing closed until not a thing moved save his eyes. He glanced firstly at the furnace, radiating the admittedly tempting light and heat; then he looked to the chair he had just vacated, the aged wood glowing faintly orange from the light of the flames; and then he turned to the child – reddish brows raised in silent question and round, freckled cheeks pinched in bafflement.

The boy had invited him to _stay_.

Oh, how he would have loved to respond; how he would have loved to accept, how everything in him longed to fall back into the chair and offer the child a smile and simply sit, simply let the other speak, just to feel the words washing over him like an icy ocean wave, how he would love to nod, to open his lips and allow words of sincerity and gratitude pass through them, how he would love to stay…yet he simply couldn't find it within himself to move.

"Seriously, though," the boy's voice broke through his thoughts, "please talk about something other than the weather." The words held a light, teasing undertone, clearly intended as jest; yet when Mildew laughed, he was not quite certain it was true amusement that triggered it. It was disbelief, perhaps; possibly amazement, or even simply a shield against every last bit of his previous shame; or perhaps, he concluded, perhaps it was honest pleasure or mirth. All the old man really knew was just how long it had been since he had last laughed; and he realized now how desperately he had missed it.

And that was when the child did something truly incredible.

Despite the shock coloring every last inch of his face; despite the wide-eyed look he sent the old man, brows rising so high they nearly disappeared amidst wayward auburn strands, despite the clear astonishment in his features, he composed himself and, unbelievably, his lips pulled up into a small, genuine smile. "Well, c'mon, then, if you're coming!" He motioned to the furnace as he spoke. "Don't just stand there. Your sheep would be a nice subject change," he added thoughtfully. "What's his name again? Fungus? Why isn't he here, anyway?"

Slowly, very slowly, Mildew took his aged hand away from the door and crossed the room with slightly shaking legs. "Yes. Fungus, that's right." It sent a kind of thrill through him to speak the words; he could not remember the last time he had opened his lips without the intent to hurt. "He's a bit ornery in the winters, and won't leave the house unless I carry him down the hill, if you can believe that…" Yet he wondered, as he lowered himself into the abandoned seat, how long this would go on; how long, he wondered, before something hurtful tumbled from his tongue, and the moment disappeared as if it had never been?

* * *

Mildew had a plan.

Now, whether or not the plan in question was precisely a good one definitely remained to be seen, but the point, the old man told himself, was that he had one, regardless of the quality. He had come to the startling conclusion that he needed a plan only the previous night, and had concocted it as swiftly as possible – which was quite swiftly indeed. He must simply enter the smithy, say his piece, and depart as speedily as circumstances would allow. He _must_ do it – must go inside the warm little building and must speak to the child, he must…he wasn't certain what had caused the boy's sudden kindness; all he knew was that he must not allow it to continue. And so he would go, he would go into the smithy and he would be so vicious and cruel, so brutal and cold-hearted that the boy would soon forget he had ever been anything more. If he could just aggravate or enrage the child beyond endurance, then he could leave and they wouldn't ever see each other again, they could avoid each other for the rest of their natural lives…

The previous statement stands: whether or not the plan in question was precisely a good one remained to be seen.

The old man was so lost in his thoughts – so preoccupied with all the possibilities, he nearly missed the bit of torn paper nailed clumsily to the smithy door; but when his piercing, pale eyes fell upon the crumpled sheet fluttering wildly in the frigid autumn breeze, the elderly Viking paused, and placed two fingers against the bottom end in hopes of reading the messy, hastily-penned words.

 _OUT TODAY_

 _COME BACK TOMORROW_

"That _damn_ kid!"


End file.
